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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25733461">Elias Bouchard's Home for Ex-Fear-God-Avatars and Other Newly Human Entities</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceandeath/pseuds/oceandeath'>oceandeath</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>...and they were roommates, Canon-Typical Horror, Disabled Author, Disabled Character, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Character-Centric, Nonbinary Michael Shelley, canon has been scrapped for parts, eye trauma (aftermath of), it's not a fix it but i'm not breaking things either, nonbinary helen richardson, post-post apocalypse, the most unrealistic part of this fic is home ownership, the spiral is the entity of nonbinary</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 12:36:23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,153</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25733461</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceandeath/pseuds/oceandeath</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The apocalypse came, and went, and now they're left to pick up the pieces. Adjusting to being people again is a difficult process, especially when you haven't done mundane things like "buying groceries" or "paying rent" in over a decade. Luckily, Jonah Magnus wasn't lacking in resources.<br/>Or, blatant wish fulfillment in the form of the original Elias Bouchard being allowed to have nice things and recover with his two very good not-hallway friends with normal hands.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>136</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Real Elias Bouchard Fics</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They're back in the Institute. By mutual decree, not the archives, or the research department, or any other of their collective old haunts. Somewhere that, despite the bad blood bathing the place like wallpaper, is still neutral territory. A break room of some sort on one of the mid-upper levels. It has couches, and it has a kettle, and everything else is secondary.</p><p>They part as naturally as oil and water. The new archive crew to one side, the remnants of the old on the other, vastly outnumbered as they are. Michael doesn't even know most of the newer people's names. Jon won't look at him, and he doesn't dare ask where Sasha or Tim are. Martin is the sole link between them, but he's-- well, there's other bombs for him to defuse.</p><p>Such as Elias, currently the only other member of their side of the room. The others are watching him as if they expect him to manifest a gun from thin air and kill them all, but he's just sitting politely, folded up on himself with his hands in his lap and his head tilted down towards the floor. The pose – and the white gauze wrapped around his eyes in messy layers-- gives him the impression of an angel, Michael thinks, like one of the somber statues in a church courtyard.</p><p>They want to question him. He doesn't need beholding-given powers to figure that out. Michael can feel it hanging in the air, unspoken, but stiflingly present. Martin is holding them back for now, but he's wavering, exhausted, resolve flickering like the last vestiges of flame.</p><p>The action takes place before he consciously authorizes it. He's nudging Elias with a shoulder, trying not to flinch at the startled gasp it shakes out of him in response.</p><p>"Do you want to go somewhere else?" Michael whispers.</p><p>A pause, and then the barest of nods.</p><p>Contact made isn't given up easily, Michael finds, as he trails a hand down to Elias' hand and pulls the two off them off the couch. There's a commotion from the other side of the room, and one of the women Michael doesn't know raises her voice above the rest.</p><p>"Where do you think you're going?" she growls, angry.</p><p>Michael holds his head up in defiance, even as Elias at his side threatens to shrink into some microscopic form. "The library," he decides, because it comes to mind first.</p><p>She looks like she wants to argue, or perhaps give chase, but Jon gives her an incomprehensible look and shakes his head slightly. "Let them go," he says.</p><p>She still gives them another shifty glance, but apparently the word of the apocalypse-averter himself is enough to get them out the door, and Michael doesn't wait long enough for him to change his mind.</p><p> </p><p>They're halfway there before Elias untenses even the barest amount. It's slow going. Elias is still taking those hesitant baby steps of the newly blinded, not yet confident in the darkness' inability to manifest objects for him to bump into in the otherwise-empty hallway. Considering the fear-driven world they've all narrowly escaped, it's maybe a more rational impulse than one would consider otherwise.</p><p>But he does untense, and they do make it to the library in one piece. It's only at the doors that Michael thinks to ask--</p><p>"Is this an okay place for you? I only picked it because it was the first place I could think of that wasn't--" he pauses. The words to describe everything are far too heavy to say out loud. It's too soon, too real. "--bad for me," he finishes. An understatement, but it is at least a statement.</p><p>Elias shakes his head, and then nods. "It's fine," he says. "Never spent much time there, before."</p><p>Michael nods. He understands that. The before. The corner of Elias' mouth quirks upward in some facsimile of a smile, and then disappears. "Plus, it's got the comfy chairs, doesn't it?"</p><p>He can't help it, his face falls. "I don't know," he says, willing his voice to not betray his agony. "We can certainly check, though."</p><p>He doesn't know, really. That's the problem. He doesn't know how much Elias even remembers of the last 25 years. He doesn't know if maybe he's referring to chairs from their time-- their <em>shared</em><span> time in the Institute, or--some chairs in those years of lost static and kaleidoscope fractals. He doesn't know if there were chairs in the hallways. Can't remember if he sat down. If he even existed when he wasn't an appendage but a whole body with walls like intestines squirming and moving and digesting, a grotesque real estate venus flytrap.</span></p><p>"Michael?" Elias' voice stirs him from his thoughts to find the two of them still standing at the entrance. Elias' hand is still gripped in his, and he gives it a quick squeeze, gratified when he gets one in return.</p><p>"Sorry," he says, feeling very small. "Got lost."</p><p>Elias nods like he understands, and of course, he's probably the only person on the planet at this point who's been through anything even remotely similar to what he has. They're both old, but new in their bodies, skin worn like winter clothes on the first frost of the year. Of over twenty years. Michael maneuvers them over to the nearest seats and marvels at how relatively unscathed he escaped.</p><p> </p><p>The two of them lapse into silence for a moment, but it's not like the other room. The silence there had felt deliberate. Exclusionary. There had been plenty of chatter – the fate of the Institute and its hundred or so employees in the post-post-apocalypse was a rather complex matter, after all, but no one had asked their thoughts on any of it.</p><p>Not that they had any to speak of. Michael didn't know what was going on in Elias' head, but he knew that he never wanted to see the Institute's stupid carpet again, the sooner the better. But again, unlike the others, he had truly no other place to go. He'd been missing for over a decade. If he wasn't already declared legally dead, he would be soon. Going back to his apartment was a lost cause. As the Distortion, he'd been his own living quarters. He was living quarters. The thought made him giggle involuntarily, and beside him, Elias flinched. He recovered swiftly, turning his bandaged gaze on Michael and raising an eyebrow. "What are you thinking about?" he asked.</p><p>
  <span> Michael shrugged. "Thinking about the Institute, I guess. And the future. The sooner I never see this place again, the better. But-- it used to be-- when I was the Distortion, I </span>
  <em>was</em>
  <span> my living quarters." Saying it made him giggle again, tinged with desperation. "I haven't paid rent in </span>
  <em>quite </em>
  <span>some time. I've got nowhere else to go."</span>
</p><p>Elias gave him an odd look, made unreadable by the fact that a fourth of his face was covered. "I should have a place in my name," he said. "Assuming Jonah didn't just sleep in his office."</p><p>Michael's tongue made it to the door before his brain. "Or the Panopticon," he said. "Crawled back into his coffin every night like a vampire."</p><p>Elias seemed to find the thought funny rather than horrifying, judging by the huff of laughter and the tiny smile he shot in Michael's direction. "He had to have at least kept a bank account," he said. "Even if he did sleep hanging from the ceiling like a bat."</p><p>Belatedly, Michael's mind caught up with the rest of him. "Are you offering--" he couldn't find the words for an assumption to make.</p><p>
  <span> "Whatever I have," Elias finished for him. "Whatever </span>
  <em>he</em>
  <span> had. Us bad guys ought to stick together, yeah?" He punctuated this by knocking his shoulder against Michael's softly. There was a beat of silence, and then he added-- "I have ulterior motives, anyway. I don't want to be alone." He hesitated, tilting his head away. "It's too quiet."</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Michael had his hand in his grip before he was done speaking, shaking it vigorously. "I understand," he said forcefully. "</span>
  <em>I understand.</em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>"The fact that you've got working eyes is just a fun bonus," Elias said lightly.</p><p>"Genius!" Michael exclaimed. "I can be the eyes, and you be the brains."</p><p>
  <span> Elias let out a startled laugh. "We-- we might find some difficulty with that setup. I don't know why Jonah picked me, but it </span>
  <em>certainly</em>
  <span> wasn't for my brains. More for my lack thereof."</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "Well, then we can borrow Martin," Michael said determinedly. "Or Jon. They must have </span>
  <em>some</em>
  <span> sense between the two of them."</span>
</p><p>Elias made a noncommittal noise, and the silence fell once more, more comfortable than before. Or, comfortable for Elias at least, Michael guessed. He seemed content to just sit, staring off into-- nothing, he supposed. But Michael couldn't stand it. He tapped his shoes against the hardwood floor of the library. He stretched his hands, ran a querying finger through the long curls of his hair, and let out an idle hum before he consciously recognized he was making noise and quieted himself. The stillness that followed was the itchy sort, and his brain wanted to sit still even less than his body.</p><p>"Can Helen come too?" he blurted out. "If- if she wants to."</p><p>"Helen?" Elias asked.</p><p>
  <span> "She's, um- like my spiral sibling. She was the Distortion too, for a while. Although not as long. I don't know if she'll even </span>
  <em>want</em>
  <span> to. I mean, she might still have her own stuff, I don't know. Just a thought."</span>
</p><p>A beat of silence. "Yeah, if she wants to," Elias said, and then continued with an unexpected enthusiasm. "Why not? The more, the merrier."</p><p>"Should we go ask her now? Do you know if you have a place? Can we go?" Michael was practically vibrating with excitement, bouncing slightly in his seat.</p><p>"Yeah," he said. "Let's-- yes, he had an apartment within walking distance from here. Could probably get there on the subway too, though. Especially with you as my eyes."</p><p>Michael bounced to his feet, flapping a hand in the air. "Let's go!"</p><p>Elias got to his feet, and then maneuvered Michael's still arm into a bent angle. "It's easier to walk if you guide me like this," he explained, slipping his arm through Michael's.</p><p>His other hand's flapping increased its velocity. "Got it!" he chirped.</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Elias did seem more confident on the trip back to the room the others were in. He wasn't taking those hesitant, shuffling steps anymore, and Michael found it easier to guide him around the occasional obstacle. When they opened the door to the break room, they were greeted by collective stares. Helen had made little progress since they had left. Excluded from the crew of new archival employees like the two of them, but equally excluded from their quiet reunion of the archives-circa-1990, she was still hovering quietly on the fringes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "Why are </span>
  <em>you two</em>
  <span> back?" demanded the angry lady from before.</span>
</p><p>"We're leaving," Elias said flatly, earning him raised eyebrows and an expression Michael could only describe as the puzzled version of angry. "The Institute," he clarified. "To-- to Jonah's house."</p><p>
  <span> "Why are you telling </span>
  <em>us?</em>
  <span>" she asked.</span>
</p><p>Michael decided it was his time to step in. "I wanted to talk to Helen first," he said. The group as a whole looked surprised by that, as if they had forgotten she was there. Judging by the toothy grin she shot Michael's way, that very well might be the case.</p><p>"Me? Why, I'm delighted!" She laughed. "Shall we take this out into the hall?"</p><p>It was kind of unfair, Michael thought, how well the pointed glance Elias gave the rest of them came across with no eyes to speak with, as he said, "Yes, I think we shall."</p><p>When the door had closed safely behind them in the hallway, Helen tilted her head at Michael. "What's up?" she asked.</p><p>"I was wondering, um--" he hesitated, realizing for the first time what a strange situation this was. The two of them had only barely met each other, truly. Had nothing in common but the source of their nightmares. But surely that would be enough. He gathered his willpower and carried on. "If you had anywhere to stay? Because if you don't, Elias offered-- Jonah's old place. You could stay with us."</p><p>She blinked at him in response, clearly caught off-guard. "I- I hadn't thought of it yet, actually. I had an apartment, before-- but I-- now..."</p><p>
  <span> "Same boat we're in," Elias added dryly. </span>
  <span>"Seems to be a common theme for ex-avatars. We ought to just get a house, commit to the whole thing."</span>
</p><p>She looked to him with an amused twinkle in her eyes. "I used to be a real estate agent, you know. I don't know what kind of resources we're working with in terms of funds, but it's very possible."</p><p>"What, Elias Bouchard's home for ex-fear-god-avatars and other newly human entities?" Elias snorted.</p><p>"Why not?" said Helen, as Michael exclaimed "Yes!" simultaneously.</p><p>The hallway went quiet as Elias seemed to consider what he was getting into.</p><p>"Oh, hell," he said finally. "Let's do it."</p><p> </p><p>As if by some unerring sixth sense-- and that likely wasn't too far off the mark, Michael realized-- Jon chose that moment to stick his head into the hallway.</p><p>"Elias, a word?" he asked.</p><p>"Pumpernickel," Elias replied.</p><p>Michael swore he could see the gears in Jon's head grind to a stop before slowly catching up. "What?"</p><p>"You asked for a word," and was that a faint grin at the edge of Elias' face? "So I gave you one."</p><p>As delighted as Michael was by this turn of events, Jon refused to be deterred by it. "I was wondering if I could get your statement about what happened with Jonah Magnus. For the record."</p><p>The temperature in the hallway seemed to drop ten degrees. Jon didn't seem to realize it, but Michael could see the tension in Elias' body, so carefully and cautiously unwound in their time together, snap back into place like a string pulled taut. He was practically vibrating with rage, the cold kind that slipped past your defenses and settled in your gut. Like Gertrude, Michael realized uncomfortably.</p><p>Elias gave Jon a thin smile. "Don't you think the Eye has had enough from me?" he asked.</p><p>Jon recoiled as if Elias had physically struck him. He looked... guilty, Michael thought. And pained. "Yes," he said quietly, as if he was somewhere further away, and then with more force. "Yes, you're right. I'm----- sorry, Elias."</p><p>
  <span> Michael was almost afraid Elias </span>
  <em>would</em>
  <span> hit him then and there, but he seemed to relax fractionally instead. He didn't say anything else, though Jon hovered a moment as if he expected it before disappearing back into the break room. They stood silently a moment longer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "So!" Helen exclaimed, clapping her hands together. "The sooner we're out of here, the sooner we can go </span>
  <em>house shopping!</em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>"Yes," Elias declared, holding out an arm for Michael to take. "Let's get out of here. And can someone with working eyes pull up the direction to Jonah's place?"</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>specific warnings for this chapter:<br/>nightmares, unreality, and disordered eating</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thank you for all the fantastic comments!!! &lt;3 i eat them like tma entities eat fear</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jonah's place was close by, a high-floor apartment in an upper class neighborhood. Elias grew tense as they got closer to their destination, though whether it was from the journey – being guided through public transport, with all the noise and people it brought with it--or the destination itself, Michael couldn't tell.</p><p>Elias rummaged through the pockets of his jacket for the keys and fit them into the lock in a practiced motion. The apprehension grew contagious as the door swung open and the three of them stepped inside. The apartment was dark. Helen flicked on a light switch and clapped her hands delightedly. "It's atrocious!" she exclaimed.</p><p>Maybe it was her real estate experience, Michael guessed, because to him it just looked like an apartment. A spacious apartment, dusty but well kept, and several degrees fancier than anything he could've ever afforded, but otherwise... It was, at least, not dripping of occult decor.</p><p>Helen stepped over to a shelf and began idly picking through the contents. "It looks as if it hasn't been redecorated since 1960," she clarified, cluing Michael in to the source of its atrociousness in her eyes. Now that she pointed it out, a lot of the decor did look very old. There were big paintings on the wall with ornate wooden frames of formal-looking men. He recognized the furthest on one end as James Wright, head of the Institute prior to Elias. On the other far end was Jonah Magnus in his original body. And, he realized with an unsettled flip of his stomach, all the portraits had the exact same eyes. Almost looking directly at him rather than the static images they were. He turned away from them.</p><p>"He hadn't," Elias said dryly, still lingering in the door frame. "We could probably make a decent penny selling off his old crap."</p><p>
  <span> "I'm not much for the details of history like that, but we could probably make a </span>
  <em>fortune</em>
  <span> off antiques like this, if we found the right buyer." Helen said. "This isn't just the remnants of a pauper's attic. This stuff was probably quite valuable in its own time, too."</span>
</p><p>"Can you work on finding out the details of that?" Elias asked. "I want to get out of here as soon as possible, and the sooner we know how much money we can get together, the sooner I can give you a budget for our house search."</p><p>"I would be delighted to," Helen grinned.</p><p>"Oh, and-- if there's anything either of you want to keep--" he spread his arms out in an inviting gesture. "Just don't tell me. I want none of it."</p><p>
  <span> "Let's start all that tomorrow, maybe?" Helen suggested. "It </span>
  <em>is</em>
  <span> getting late, now."</span>
</p><p>Elias stiffened again. "What-- what time is it?" He asked apprehensively.</p><p>"Almost 11:30," Michael chimed in.</p><p>"Eugh." Elias scrubbed at his face. "I- I had no idea. No way to tell."</p><p>"We could get you a watch!" Michael exclaimed. "One with the tactile hands. Oh, or one that talks."</p><p>"<em>Tomorrow,</em>" Helen emphasized. "Dibs on the couch."</p><p>Elias glanced in Michael's direction. "There's only one bed," he said. "But I could--"</p><p>"I don't mind sharing," Michael interrupted.</p><p>"Are you sure?" Elias asked.</p><p>Michael shrugged. "As long as you're okay with it. I do tend to take up a lot of room."</p><p>"No, uh--" Was it the lighting, or was that the barest hint of a flush in Elias' cheeks? "That should be okay. I-I'd rather not sleep alone in Jonah's bed anyway."</p><p>Already sprawled out on the couch with a blanket she'd pilfered from some closet or trunk, "Goodnight," Helen said pointedly.</p><p>"Right," Elias replied, as Michael offered an arm to lead him to the bedroom.</p><p>"Goodnight Helen!" Michael chirped.</p><p>He shut the door behind them and watched as the light flickered off underneath it. Jonah's bedroom was much like the rest of his apartment. Indistinct to Michael's oblivious eyes, most of its decor simply looked old in the same way as an antique shop or a grandparent's attic. The bed was big, with deep purple sheets and heavy blankets. Seeing it made him realize he was tired. He wasn't sure when he'd last slept. He hadn't needed to for years.</p><p>He stripped off his outer layers without hesitation and climbed into the bed. It was comfortable enough. His eyelids felt heavy enough that a rock probably would've felt comfortable enough. On the other side of the bed, Elias settled awkwardly on top of the covers.</p><p>"Are you going to sleep in all your clothes?" Michael asked, on the off chance that he'd merely forgotten.</p><p>"I- I don't want to wear any of Jonah's things," he said. "Any <em>more</em> of them."</p><p>"Then wear less of them," Michael yawned. "Or you can borrow my shirt. S'on the floor over here."</p><p>Elias didn't answer, but with his eyes closed Michael heard the shuffling of covers and clothing. Drifting to sleep was as easy as floating in water. Just lying back and letting go.</p><p> </p><p>He opened his eyes to a yellow hallway lit by dim bulbs overhead, and there was no question of where he was. Unfair, maybe, for his dreaming mind to bring him back there so soon, but not unexpected. He drifted down the corridors, ignoring the mirrors and paintings. A decade of life in-as the Distortion had given him a knack for navigation that not even the tenuous dream-logic could rob him of. After all, he had never been the one afraid, in these hallways.</p><p>He came to a door soon enough, an unassuming one with brown wood and a brass knob. It opened to a much less pleasant scene. The Archives, as they had been when he worked there. The staff turned to look at him in unison, wearing dull matching frowns. Gertrude opened her mouth to talk to him, but Emma's voice came floating out instead.</p><p>"Michael," said Gertrude-Emma. "Pack your things. We're going to go on a trip."</p><p>"I don't want to," Michael said. "I quit working here when you turned me into a hallway."</p><p>Gertrude stepped closer to him. There was a frightening disparity to her, the grim determined lines of her face against the look in her eyes. He couldn't meet them for long, but a split second was long enough to know. He could see that terrible sadness reflected in them, burned by the terrifying intensity of it. "It wasn't a question," she said, soft and cold united in her own voice.</p><p>Behind her, he could see Emma lingering. She was looking back at him, smiling. She opened her lips as if to say something, but her mouth was full of cobwebs. He gasped and turned, intending to flee back to the safety of his hallways, but the door opened up to the decks of a ship instead. It was the Tundra, and across the threshold he could see Gertrude leaning on the railing. Beside her, he was standing, himself as he had been. Whole, unbroken. Michael-the-person turned to look at Michael-the-hallway and frowned. He nudged Gertrude, trying to get her attention, but her focus was rapt upon the sea. He tried to speak, but the sound of the waves crashing against the hull drowned him out. They grew in volume and intensity until he couldn't think against the noise, and he shut his eyes tightly, clasping his hands over his ears. The wood of the door behind him was hot against his back even as the ocean in front of him drenched him with its spray. His hands were on the railing, and on the door handle, and the knob wouldn't turn no matter how much desperate force he applied.</p><p> </p><p>He woke up to the quiet creaking of the bedroom door opening. Light peeked through from beyond, chasing away the last shadowed fragments of his dream. The door shut again just as quietly. In the darkness, he could just make out the form of Elias with his bandaged face buried in the pillows. The room was quiet aside from the gentle sounds of his breathing.</p><p>Michael cautiously extracted his limbs from the bed, trying not to disturb Elias. A quick glance at his watch told him the time was around 2 in the morning. Logically, the door-opener had to be Helen, but it didn't stop the low thrum of fear in his blood. It was such a foreign sensation that he couldn't place it at first. He touched a hand to his bare chest, feeling the rapid pulse of his heart with a morbid curiosity. It was thrilling, in a way. He had forgotten what it felt like to be prey.</p><p>He padded over to the door, trying to will his mind to choose fight over flight. He turned the doorknob and pulled the door open, squinting against the harsh light beyond. Helen was pacing back and forth by the outer wall, rubbing at her hands. She didn't seem to notice his entry.</p><p>This relieved him somewhat, admittedly, as he stepped out fully and quietly shut the bedroom door behind him. It took the threat level down from "Helen has been incapacitated and I am all that stands between Elias and certain doom" to a mere "Helen is having a hard time sleeping and likely could use a supportive friend," which he was happy to provide.</p><p>"Helen?" he said, aiming for quiet and calm.</p><p>She jumped, eyes shifting from him to the door to the other door – the front one. "Sorry," she said. "I- I didn't mean to wake you."</p><p>"It's okay," Michael said. It didn't seem to assuage the guilt or tension in her body, even though he meant it.</p><p>"I just had to check," she said, resuming her pacing. "I-I had to check-- I wasn't sure."</p><p>"Check what?" Michael asked. He was beginning to get a funny feeling about this, like he was looking at a half-filled crossword puzzle, too far away to read the clues. He could see the shape of it, and it wasn't pretty.</p><p>"The doors," Helen explained. "I wanted to... no, I <em>had</em> to know that they were still there. That they hadn't gone bad."</p><p>That struck him as silly, at first. Doors weren't like eggs, they couldn't expire. He was about to say as much when he saw-- or perhaps felt-- the resistance of a doorknob stubbornly unturning.</p><p><em>She means the Distortion, you idiot,</em> a voice spoke up from the back of his mind. It sounded uncomfortably like Emma's. <em>She's afraid of </em>you.</p><p>"Oh," he said aloud, in a very small voice.</p><p>Helen kept pacing. "You can never tell," she continued, more to herself than to Michael. "You can never tell from the outside. I was trying to sleep and I just-- I just <em>can't</em>, because if you stop looking they might--"</p><p>He was beginning to feel sick. "Because the Spiral only changes when you're not looking," he finished.</p><p>She looked up at him with surprise, as if she was only now remembering he was there at all. "Right," she said.</p><p>"Would it help if I took over?" He asked. "I can watch the doors for you so you can get some sleep."</p><p>Guilt spread across her features. "Oh, no-- no, you don't need to do that. I shouldn't have-- woken you anyway, I-- I'll just--"</p><p>Pointing out that she <em>hadn't</em> woken him seemed moot, but it was unlikely he could get back to sleep even if he wanted to.</p><p>"I really don't mind," he tried. "I had-- a bad dream, I think, and I don't particularly want to sleep again so soon."</p><p>She hesitated, doing a few more laps around the room before stopping in the center, by the couch. "Okay," she said. "Let me-- let me just check the doors again."</p><p>Michael nodded, and she went over to the front door, unlocking and locking it and then unlocking it again before she opened it. She poked her head outside, and beyond her he could see the same nondescript apartment hallway they'd all seen as they entered. She went to the bathroom door and repeated the ritual before heading towards the bedroom.</p><p>"Do you want to move to the bed?" Michael asked. "There's only one door to keep track of in there, and I can watch it from out here too."</p><p>It would also give her a better chance at actually sleeping, Michael guessed, as him wandering around the room would likely be unhelpful.</p><p>Helen hesitated. "Do you think Elias would mind?"</p><p>Michael shrugged. "I don't see why he would. He was fine with me, after all."</p><p>"Okay," Helen replied, and promptly disappeared into the darkened bedroom. The door shut with a click, and then locked, leaving Michael standing alone in the main room. There was no chance of waking either of them up now. It wasn't something he would ever intend to do, but there was something different about not having the option.</p><p> </p><p>As he stood still in the center of the quiet room, he realized it was beginning to get to him. Being in a stranger's home, in a stranger part of town. He felt very mortal, and very very small, like his appendages weren't enough to contain his soul. Like an overstuffed pillow, coming apart at the seams. Rushing water flooded through his mind, and for a horrible moment he was back on the Tundra, shaking with the arctic cold. Then he was back in the strange room, with the smell of dust in his nose and gaudy rugs beneath his knees. Where had all of his nerve endings gone, fled to other hallways? His vision was dark static, or ocean waves, or the sense of unbeing, and he was so much closer to the floor. He couldn't make heads or tail of it.</p><p>Hunger rolled through his stomach like low thunder, and the pieces filtered back into place. He was <em>hungry.</em> When was the last time he'd eaten <em>food,</em> human food? His mind, gorged on memory, unhelpfully conjured the image of a cafe table and a steaming mug of coffee he'd never drank. He forced it back down. He couldn't subsist on fear alone, not anymore.</p><p>It took a tremendous effort to get to his feet. Static hovered threateningly at the edges of his vision, but he didn't faint again. He staggered into the kitchen. It looked promisingly modern-- there was at least a fridge-- and he opened a few cabinets before he found the pantry. For one terrifying moment, he feared there would be no food at all. Jonah had been an avatar too, after all. His fingers found a light switch and it flickered on without hesitation. Relief flooded him in the form of an eclectic assortment of canned goods and other basic staples. His stomach flipped at the thought of eating condensed soup after a decade of fear, but a bag of rice shoved into a back corner looked invitingly bland in comparison.</p><p>Jonah didn't have a rice cooker, but he found a decently sized pot easily enough and set about boiling water, getting a glass for himself while he waited. Even in the cafe, he hadn't actually tried the coffee. He hadn't liked it when he was human, and on that day he'd been preoccupied trying to keep his limbs correctly proportioned. Doing anything else on top of that was too difficult.</p><p>The water was cold, and it felt good in his mouth, even though he could taste every speck of dust that had made its home there in the time since Jonah had last used it. He drifted, safe in the knowledge that at least his form was static enough to drift freely. When he reassessed his surroundings some time later, the water in the pot was boiling. In went a cup of rice, and he set the lid on top. A renewed sense of dizziness alerted him that his body might prefer it if he sat, and he indulged it easily, though he made sure he had a line of sight to all three doors.</p><p>Without either of them personally haunting the place, it seemed unlikely that they would shift, but he was loathe to break a promise to a friend. Or to anyone, really, a trait he had carried into the Distortion with him. That was the horrible paradox of it all, to tell only the truth and be perceived only as lies. It had been upsetting, more than anything else, because he'd never been a liar. Never intentionally. And then he had become it, the sense of untruth and the hidden sense of it all. He had not lied.</p><p>Time slipped past unnoticed, and he jolted upright. The doors remained unchanged. The pot on the stove threw steam against its lid. The house was quiet, and the air was still. The rice was bland, dry, and overcooked. It was the best meal he'd ever eaten.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>oh hey and i just realized i linked this fic to my blog in one direction but not the other. if you have questions/comments/ideas/art/complaints you wanna throw at me on tumblr i'm <a href="https://thaumas.tumblr.com/">thaumas</a> on tumblr</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>no specific warnings here imo, but let me know if there's something you think should be warned for that i missed. character tags have been updated!<br/>also, i've had this chapter written since before i posted chapter 1. this is an important note because this one addresses Some Things i've been eager to get to since the beginning. &gt;:)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The room was dark, and something was covering his face. He was halfway through tearing off the gauze around his eyes in a panic before reality filtered back in. The room was dark because he could not see. He could not see because he had no eyes to see with. He had no eyes to see with because he was free, free of Jonah Magnus' crusty old soul piloting his body like a shitty remote control car, and that replaced his lingering fear with manic delight. The space where his eyes should be hurt, but so did everything else, after twenty years of existing solely as a disembodied pair of spectating eyes. This was much preferable.</p><p>He tried to put the bandages back into place, but his hand-not-eye coordination was still painfully lacking, and the sensation of the gauze against his fingers was far more distracting than it had been against his eyelids. He ended up rubbing it between his fingers, trying to recategorize the sensation in his mind as-- at least neutral, instead of searing agony. If everything burned, he wouldn't be able to tell when he was on fire.</p><p>Giving up at last, he tucked the end of it underneath the rest and turned his attention to the wider world around him. He was wearing less clothing, and it was softer than the starchy dress clothes Jonah had been fond of dressing them in. Rubbing at it idly with his fingers wasn't exactly pleasant, but it was perhaps less loudly bad.</p><p>The covers on the bed felt more distinctly unpleasant, so he extracted himself from them, feeling the resistance of a body in bed beside him. Michael had gone to bed with him, hadn't he? The thought sparked a new concern. As he had found out rather abruptly last night, he no longer had a way of judging the time. It could still be the middle of the night, for all he knew. Even likely, if Michael was still asleep.</p><p>He wanted to know. Such a tiny detail, but tantalizingly out of his grasp. Like an apple hanging from a tree. He wanted to Know it, in that way that had been as effortless as breathing. As effortless as sight.</p><p>He jerked away as if the thought had burned him, and felt Michael shift beside him.</p><p>"Mm?" murmured a sleepy and decidedly not-Michael voice. It threw him off, but he placed it quickly. Just Helen. She and Michael must've swapped places, at some point. Not the weirdest possibility. "Is it morning?" She asked sleepily.</p><p>"I was hoping you'd know," Elias mumbled back.</p><p>The sound of blankets shifting-- Helen sitting upright?-- and then a clearer voice. "Oh-- Elias-- Michael and I-- I hope you don't mind..." she trailed off.</p><p>He shook his head quickly. "I don't mind," he added, to make himself completely clear. "I'm just glad you got some sleep."</p><p>She was quiet, and for a moment Elias was afraid he'd offended her inadvertently. Then he heard the shifting of covers again.</p><p>"Oh, it <em>is</em> morning," she said. "Barely-- it's almost eleven." She laughed, a delightful, melodious sound. "I haven't slept in this late since-- well, I suppose I haven't slept at all, lately!"</p><p>He grinned. "Seems to be a lot of that going around, I hear. Hopefully it'll get easier with time."</p><p>"Speaking of things I haven't done lately... I want pancakes," Helen said, with a wistful sigh. "I stopped eating breakfast when it stopped satisfying my hunger. But it's the most important meal of the day, you know."</p><p>The idea of trying to eat food, with all the overwhelming sensations involved, made his stomach squirm unpleasantly. "I was never much for eating breakfast," he admitted. "My stomach took-- takes a while to wake up."</p><p>And that hadn't changed when Jonah took the reins either, to Elias' delight. He may have inherited Elias' strength and good looks, but it was inseparable from all the inconvenient quirks of Elias' body. And that wasn't even starting on the pain. All of the beholding-given power in the world wasn't enough for Jonah to forcibly manifest an appetite before noon. Not that he even needed to eat, but to say Jonah's tendencies leaned towards the hedonistic would be an understatement.</p><p>
  <span> There was the sound of covers rustling again, and then the creaking of floorboards. "Well, </span>
  <em>I'm</em>
  <span> going to raid Jonah Magnus' pantry," Helen declared. "Coming with?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "Of course," he said immediately, taking a moment to assess the clothing situation. He had Michael's shirt, comfortably big on him, and it took deliberate effort to suppress the long-defunct instinct to throw on a second layer to hide his form. Neither of these two would see him as anything but a man, regardless of the state of his body, and besides, his chest had been flat for the better part of a decade, now. Jonah had taken care of that early on in his transition. Still, it was an odd adjustment, to have reached the destination with no say in the journey.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> He found the doorway on his own easily enough, following the sound of Helen opening it and making her way into the main room. Getting to the kitchen was harder, with the vast expanse of unknown that lay between them. </span>
  <span>He wished desperately for a cane. Ahead of him, there was the sound of movement, and then Helen was at his elbow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "Need a hand? Or a pair of eyes?" she asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "Please," he said, threading his arm through hers, and together they made their way to the kitchen. He took a seat at the counter and listened to the abstract rummaging of Helen trying to find something edible in Jonah's pantry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "This is bizarre," Helen announced. "He has-- there's this weird disparity, like a rich pretentious asshole mixed with a broke college student."</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Elias cackled outright, surprising himself with it. "Yep," he grinned, spreading his arms out to either side. "That's us. In a fucking nutshell."</span>
</p><p>
  <span> He heard the sound of a chair being pulled out, and Helen sat down across from him. "</span>
  <em>Please</em>
  <span> elaborate on that. I'd love to know how a 200 year old man ends up with caviar and waygu beef and still doesn't own a set of measuring cups."</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "He couldn't cook," Elias said simply.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "You're joking." Helen replied. When he didn't give in, she kept talking. "And the other cheap stuff? Canned soup, rice, </span>
  <em>cereal?</em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <span> He shrugged. "Remnants of my taste, maybe, or maybe he just bought them and forgot. Shelf stable, after all. I may have lived in his head, but that doesn't mean I understood it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "And the raw ingredients? Why keep those if he couldn't--?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span> He grimaced. "He had... I hesitate to call them friends. Business partners?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "Who </span>
  <em>cooked</em>
  <span> for him?" Her voice was high pitched with disbelief. He was saved from having to find an answer for her by the soft sound of footsteps and Helen's surprised "Oh-- hello, Michael."</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Michael murmured something incomprehensible-- possibly just a sleepy just-woke-up noise, and seemed to fall into the chair next to Elias. There was an indistinct thump, and Michael's voice arose from much closer to the table. "Your couch is terrible."</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "Not my couch," Elias said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "Jonah's couch," Michael corrected without making a fuss, "is terrible. Can we get an air mattress or something?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "And flour," Helen added. "And measuring cups."</span>
</p><p>
  <span> The thought of being the one to sort all that out made a lump of nervousness manifest in his stomach, so rather than trying to find an answer, Elias just added his own desires into the pile. "And clothing," he said. "And I need a cane-- the long white kind-- pretty desperately."</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "Oh, hmm," Helen said. "That is very true."</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "We could go to the store and you could stay here?" Michael suggested.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Elias shook his head immediately. "I </span>
  <em>definitely</em>
  <span> do not want to stay here. Especially not alone."</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "I could stay here," Helen suggested. "Work on the real estate search?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "I don't want to go to the store alone," Michael said in a small voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "And-- I don't want to be – left out of stuff like picking clothing," Elias added. </span>
  <em>Or anything else </em>
  <span>remained unspoken.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Helen hummed in acknowledgment, tapping her nails on the table as she thought. Next to him, Elias could hear Michael twirling a lock of hair around his fingers. Between the two of them, the kitchen was awash with soothing noise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "Let's call Martin," Helen said finally. "He'll know what to do."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> One short phone call and 30 minutes later, Martin showed up at the door with a stranger in tow. The stranger made distinct tapping sounds as they walked, the kind of thing you'd expect from someone using a cane. The pieces of the puzzle clicked into place just seconds before Helen's delighted exclamation of "Melanie!" and his stomach did a sickening flip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "I brought, um, well, I suppose it's brunch," Martin said as he shuffled into the kitchen, bringing the sound of plastic bags against wood along with him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "You're a lifesaver," Helen said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "Thank you," Elias added, quietly. He felt as if he was rather rapidly being plunged into quicksand, but it couldn't hurt to be polite.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "And me," Melanie announced. "Resident expert in coping with sudden onset eyelessness. I brought you one of my extra canes. Tip number one: having a couple of them is worth it. They can take forever in the mail."</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "Thank you," Elias said again, and when that didn't feel like enough-- "I really appreciate you coming on such short notice."</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "No problem, Elias-- can I-- can I call you Eli? I know you're not-- that bastard, but it's-- when you have his name and his voice--" she trailed off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span> The thought made him feel even worse, and underneath the guilt and fear, some smoldering vestiges of anger flared up like old coal. He wanted to point out that actually, Jonah had stolen </span>
  <em>his name,</em>
  <span> had taken </span>
  <em>his voice,</em>
  <span> not the other way around. He had picked his name himself, ages ago, had celebrated when he'd finally had it legally changed, and the idea of giving it up </span>
  <em>now,</em>
  <span> when he had only just gotten his agency back? It made him unsure whether to laugh or cry. Instead, he was quiet, and when the silence had dragged on for far too long, he opened his mouth, uncertain of what would come out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "He took </span>
  <em>my </em>
  <span>name," he said quietly, and then it was as if a floodgate had opened. "I picked it out myself, and he </span>
  <em>stole</em>
  <span> it. He-- he tried to ruin it. Along with the rest of my life. He took everything from me. Tried to-- and-- if I change it now, then-- he will have succeeded."</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "It's a wound that won't heal if you let it fester," Michael added, giving Elias a comforting nudge with one of his shoulders. Elias nudged back in silent gratitude.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "I hadn't thought of it like that," Melanie said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "If you-- if you really can't," he said, desperate not to lose her support, "It's okay if you-- I don't know, you-- I don't know. I just don't want to lose that too. It's all I've got."</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "It's okay," Melanie said, and then continued with a ferocious determination. "I'll </span>
  <em>make it</em>
  <span> okay. You're nothing like him, anyway. I can tell that much."</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "Thank you," Elias whispered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Melanie cleared her throat. "So, um, onward to occupational therapy 101? That is part of why I'm here, after all. Didn't want Martin to just drop you off a weird stick and then disappear into the ether."</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "I would've helped!" Martin protested.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> He heard the distinct thump of cane against hardwood. "Yeah, but you're not blind. Trust me, it's easier to learn from someone who lives it. Which reminds me, Elias, there are great resources in London for the blind. They helped me out immensely in the early days."</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "Wait, wait, slow down-- can someone write that down?" He asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "I'll text you the details later," Melanie said. "What, do you even have your phone set up to work with voice? Do you even have a phone?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Now that the full force of Melanie King was unleashed upon him, he felt uncomfortably like a drowning man being offered rescue by incomprehensible aliens. "The last time I had a phone of my own, it was connected permanently to a wall, and didn't do anything </span>
  <em>except</em>
  <span> voice," he said dryly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "Oh my god," Melanie let out a huff of laughter. "I forgot you're old."</span>
</p><p>
  <span> He bristled. "I- I am not </span>
  <em>old,</em>
  <span>" he said, voice going embarrassingly shrill. </span>
  <span>"Michael, you were there. Please confirm that I am </span>
  <em>not</em>
  <span> old."</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Michael made a questioning noise, rendered incomprehensible by what sounded like a mouthful of pancakes. Lacking his assistance, Elias turned his attention back to Melanie. "How old are you, then? When were you born?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "I was born in 1992," Melanie said. "I'm 28."</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "Oh god," Elias put his head down on the table. "I was working for the institute before you were born."</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Someone-- presumably Michael-- gave him a gentle pat on the head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "I'm almost 50," he continued. "Fuck."</span>
</p><p>
  <span> He had meant to keep things light for the sake of their guests, but the throwaway comment hit hard. Everything about his life felt that way now, like he had made it just barely to solid ground, but it threatened to cave beneath his feet at any moment. His continued survival was rickety floorboards over the vast despair of grief.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "Still, we've got to get you a new phone," Melanie continued, oblivious. "For now I'll just text Helen. </span>
  <em>She</em>
  <span> has a phone."</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Then he was caught up in phone negotiations, and the basics of cane usage, and the darker side of things slipped away, chased out by lighthearted conversation and the pleasant sensations of being alive. Being surrounded by people for what he actually was-- for who he could continue to be. Survival, it turned out, was more than just the adrenaline rush of an aftermath. More than just the empty spaces of things lost and the hollow ache of grief. He could keep building on those rickety floorboards, until every step wasn't a gamble with the past. Survival could be warm, like seeds in fire-scorched earth. It could be soft, like Michael's shirt. Survival was sensation, and he was looking forward to whatever would come next.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hi im back. so that 193 huh guys<br/>also i do not care for episode 187 so i will be ignoring it entirely :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Adjusting to being human again was easy for Helen. Or so she assumed, based on the experiences of her companions. She hadn't lost a great deal of time or agency as the Distortion. She actually had more agency as Helen-the-Distortion than she had ever had as Helen Richardson, real estate agent. No longer beholden to the whims of her clients, who made eldritch fear gods look like small potatoes in comparison. No, the hard part about being human again was losing what she had gained as the Distortion. That utter faith in uncertainty itself, the defiance of all that was and wasn't. To be <em>and</em> not to be.</p><p>It was euphoric, compared to the rigidity of Helen Richardson's existence. And having seen that beauty, having been it, how could she fit herself back into the boxes of society? The loss came with anger, perhaps its own kind of grief, as she would once again have to deal with others fitting her into their boxes, and where before she could manifest defiance in the blink of an eye or a glance away, now she was stuck.</p><p>It was hard not to compare herself to Michael. They were like two paintings with the same color palette, painted by different hands. Different subjects. She had embraced herself even before the Distortion. Nonbinary was a label that defied labels, and none of the boxes people put her in could take that away from her. She wanted desperately to talk about it with Michael, but he seemed busy with the more practical problems of being human again.</p><p>She had other troubles to occupy her time, she supposed. She had worked on finding people to appraise and purchase parts of Jonah's collection. With money from Elias and a computer "borrowed" from the Institute courtesy of Martin, she solved the most pressing of their problems-- food, soap, other groceries.</p><p>
  <span> Michael was averse to buying clothes online, saying he'd have to touch them first, and Elias seemed reluctant to base his decisions on her descriptions alone, so they had decided clothes shopping would be their first trip as soon as Elias felt ready to leave the house. For the time being, they borrowed from Martin, who had a surplus of knitted sweaters, and Michael had given in on buying underwear and socks online. She had also ordered some leisure clothes for herself, but </span>
  <span>was amused to find them </span>
  <span>quickly stolen by Elias, who refused to touch Jonah's closet. </span>
  <span>And so the days passed easily enough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> There was something about the daylight that chased away the worst of her worries. When the others were up, filling the space with life, it was almost possible to forget everything they had been through. </span>
  <span>There was a sense of completeness to it, not because of the space, but because of the people in it. She had begun to think of them as a unit, irrevocably tied together. </span>
  <span>She had missed that aspect of the Distortion, the sense of being more. More than just a body, a wall, a segment, to be the whole house instead. They could be that for her, they could be hers, and she would be theirs, and together a new home would rise from the ruins of the old. </span>
</p><p>But inevitably, night would fall again, and the apartment would go quiet as they wound down for bed. She couldn't spend another night on the couch, but the prospect of bringing it up was daunting. She didn't want to be alone, but she was loathe to force either of them onto the couch either. The hour grew later and later, and if by some unspoken covenant, no one made any move to actually go to sleep. By midnight, it was clear she had to take the first step if she wanted any step taken at all.</p><p>"So, about the bed," she began, prompting Michael to turn his focus away from his art, and startling Elias out of his thoughts. But no one broke the silence that followed, and damn it all, Helen was tired. "It could probably fit all three of us, if no one minds the idle touch," she said.</p><p>"I'm okay with that," Elias replied, unhesitant.</p><p>Michael nodded his agreement, and then added for Elias' benefit, "Me too."</p><p>"Good," Helen said. "It's agreed. Now can we go to bed?"</p><p>"Yes, absolutely," Elias said with clear relief. "I was thinking the same thing-- about the bed-- I just didn't want to be the one who suggested it if it went awry."</p><p>"I didn't realize it needed saying," Michael said apologetically</p><p>"I forgive you both as long as you let me take the middle," Helen replied.</p><p>"Wish granted," Elias grinned. "I prefer the edge."</p><p>Crisis solved, Helen herded both of them into the bedroom. With the door locked behind her, it felt safe, even as the shadows drew long across the walls. She felt safer still when they made it into bed, with Michael's bony shoulders on one side and the soft cushion of Elias' body on the other. If the world turned upside down or inside out, what was there to care for? Everything worth having was in the room. But it wasn't their room. And it wasn't their house, either. Not yet.</p><p> </p><p>Michael and Elias had been touchy with each other from day one, but that night had opened the gates between the three of them, and now the world was awash in casual touches. Elias' hand grazing her shoulder when he asked if he could borrow her phone. Michael's head on her knees when they all squeezed onto the couch together to watch movies on their borrowed computer. It was a kind of comfort she had never had, before. Helen Richardson had been too distant, even from those she had considered her friends. Too afraid to ask. That had changed about her, too. There was little she was afraid of now.</p><p>The process of finding them a new home was going well enough. Her hunch about Jonah's collection of furniture had been correct, but she'd found it wasn't particularly necessary after checking in on his bank accounts. Between his savings and his investments, they could likely live comfortably a few times over before they actually needed to start selling his junk. But the relief in Elias' face when the tangible pieces of Jonah's legacy started to disappear from the apartment was worth more than any amount of money. It was also a convenient task for keeping herself occupied while Elias practiced navigating the world blindly.</p><p>Michael had taken up drawing to entertain himself, laying big sheets of paper on any surface flat enough to hold them. He did it almost without looking, indecipherable designs springing up of their own accord, in any medium he could get his hands on. Crayon, marker, colored pencil, until the pages were a whirl of abstract color. When he was finished, they were hard to look at. They reminded her too much of the Spiral. If there was good that had come out of being the Distortion, there was bad too, and so she resolved to just not look at them.</p><p>On the beginning of their eighth day in the world, Elias announced that he was ready to try taking a trip to the store. He'd finally gotten to take the bandages around his eyes off, revealing the implants he'd gotten shortly after everything happened. They were more for function than aesthetics, he explained, to keep his eyesockets from collapsing, but there was always the option of getting fancier ones later. It was a lot easier to read his facial expressions now. He had seemed hesitant about them at first, but he'd surpassed that too, or at least, the desire to get his own clothes outweighed it.</p><p>
  <span> They held hands as they entered the clothing store, but Helen broke off from the group with an apologetic murmur to check the function of the exit doors. When she was satisfied that they wouldn't be trapped here forever, she jogged to catch up, listening to Michael's quiet commentary on their surroundings.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "The lights are pretty bright," he was saying. "There's not many people though, I think we picked a good time." He turned to Helen as she approached, eyes never focusing on her entirely, instead glancing around at everything. "Where- what are we doing? Where do we go?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "What kind of clothes do you want?" Helen asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "More like this," Michael answered, plucking at the fabric of his shirt- a soft lavender sweater, courtesy of Martin's wardrobe. "Light colors. Not itchy. Soft. Maybe-- skirts too?" Martin hadn't owned any, much to Michael's frustration.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Helen nodded, humming in acknowledgement before turning her focus to Elias. "What about you?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "Hm?" Elias replied.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "Do you have any clothing preferences?" she elaborated. "Things you like, things you don't like?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "No suits," he answered immediately, and then paused to think. "I liked cool colors, before. Blue, green, maybe purple. I guess it doesn't matter as much to me now. It's... hard to make choices like that. When I couldn't-- for so long. I don't want to just hand it over again and say 'you pick,' but it's so much easier. I want-- I don't know."</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "We can help!" Michael offered. "Pick things out for you and all you gotta do is say yes or no?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Elias smiled. "That would help." He turned to Helen. "What about you? What are you looking for?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span> The question caught her off-guard. It was one thing to ask, to offer, to help, but to have it reciprocated? </span>
  <span>It wasn't the way life worked before. She looked between the two of them, but there was no malicious intent hidden in their eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span> "I'm not sure," she answered truthfully. "More of the same, I suppose." But what was there to return to? She no longer needed to dress to impress her clients. She couldn't return to that, when it was the scene of all she had become. She was freer now than she ever had been before, but freedom felt immeasurably vast. There were so many versions of herself she had never had the chance to become. "Sundresses," she decided, on a whim. "I want to wear sundresses."</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "Ooh," Michael said approvingly. "Good choice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> They worked their way through the aisles slowly and methodically. It felt odd to Helen to be buying a whole wardrobe at once, when before she'd always gathered clothes slowly. Maybe that was what made it so difficult to pick things out for herself- some old self-limiting tendencies rooted so deeply she couldn't bear to tear them out. Or maybe it was facing the uncomfortable realization that they'd all basically stopped existing as people for a time. Most people never had to buy an entire wardrobe at once because people didn't just stop being and then resume being without access to all the clothes they'd gathered slowly before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Whatever the case, as the clothes piled up in their shopping cart, she began to feel more and more anxious. It felt wrong to be doing this, as if everyone around them would realize. As if it was only a matter of time. Her fear prickled at the back of her neck, hanging over her shoulders like a looming spectre. She wanted desperately to check on the doors again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Ahead of her, Elias had stopped what he was doing, and now turned to face her. "Are you okay?" he asked quietly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> She glanced around, as if the answer was lying somewhere around the room. Michael was still absently brushing his hands across every item on the rack. Everyone else seemed to be going about their business as usual. There was a good amount of distance between them and the other customers. She shook her head, not trusting her own voice, and then realized he couldn't see it. "Nervous," she forced out instead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "Do you want to leave?" Elias asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "Yes," she answered, the words tumbling out in a grateful rush. "Please."</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "Okay. We still need to pay for this stuff. Do you want to head outside now and we'll catch up with you, or would you rather stick together?" he asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "Stick together," she said. "I can manage. Thank you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span> He moved aside to fill Michael in on the new plan, and then they headed towards the checkout. She followed behind them, gratitude battling her anxiety, focusing on keeping herself intact. It was only after they had finished paying and gathered their bags that she realized they would still have to deal with the trip back home. The subway had been tolerable on the way to the store, but she suspected the trip back would be worse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "Do you think we could call a taxi?" She suggested. It was only when relief flooded Elias' features that she realized he, too, was nearing his limits.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "That sounds delightful," he said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> She handled requesting them a taxi, and then looked to Michael. He'd been quiet lately, and she gave him a hesitant nudge. He startled, blinking, and then focusing on her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "Are you alright?" she asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> He shrugged. "Little overwhelmed," he said. "Managing. You?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span> She let out a huff of laughter. "About the same. Struggling."</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "Smaller steps next time, maybe," he gave her an apologetic smile as their taxi pulled up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Herding in the exhausted trio and their new worldly possessions was a collective effort, and they collapsed into a mostly-boneless heap in the backseat. If the driver gave them an odd look, Helen didn't see it, because she was pointedly Not Looking. Instead, she focused on the feeling of Elias' head tucked against her shoulder, and one of Michael's legs draped over hers. The scenery bled together as they drew closer to the apartment, and by the end of the trip she had decided the next order of business would be a well-deserved nap.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> When they finally stumbled across the apartment threshold, Helen paused solely to stuff their new clothes in the washing machine before retreating to the bedroom, the others following her without hesitation. They once again fell into bed in an undignified heap, pausing only to abandon various excess layers of clothing. When they all made it under the covers, with Michael snuggled up close to her like he was trying to leech her heat and Elias lying face down in the pillows, she spoke up again. "Good trip?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Elias made some kind of affirmative noise, a quiet "snrf" muffled by pillow. Michael simply repeated blearily, "Good trip."</span>
</p>
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